The Space Between (29 page)

“Yes,” I say, even though the thought makes an alarm shrill frantically inside my head. No one has ever seen me. But he wants to. No one has ever asked my sisters for this. They saw whether they wanted to or not.

When he pulls my dress over my head, he does it slowly. My skin prickles when the air brushes against me and I have to cross my arms over my chest. Everything is much too exposed.

“Here, come here,” I say. I pull back the shower curtain and take Truman’s hand. When I close the curtain around us, he raises his eyebrows but doesn’t say anything. Behind the curtain, everything feels safer, like the world is very small.

We stand facing each other in the bathtub and he watches me intently. Moves his lips, but no sound comes out. He raises his hands and mine rise to meet them, fingers tangling. Here is the best—the
realest
thing of my life and I don’t know how to let him touch me. It scares me, how much I want things.

“What are you scared of?” he says, and his voice is low and gentle.

“Myself.” My throat feels tight and guilty when I say it out loud. “Where I come from, this—what we’re doing—this isn’t good. There’s all this noise in my head, all these voices telling me what I should be, and I just want them to stop.”

Truman nods and his expression is solemn, like he knows exactly what I’m talking about. Without looking away from me, he reaches behind him and turns on the shower.

Immediately, the bathroom is filled with the roar of water. It pours down on us, cold and then warm. My hair is soaked and we stand facing each other, bathed in steam.

He smiles. “Let’s hear them try and talk at you now.”

When he lowers his head to kiss me, I let myself collapse into him. His mouth is careful and he moves slowly, so slowly it sends shudders down my spine. Something electric sings in my veins and I love and hate it. I want to laugh at how terrible I am. I have never wanted anything more than this.

He takes me around the waist and leans me back, our skin sticking and squealing against the sides of the tub. He kisses me hard on the mouth and keeps doing it.

Our bodies are awkward in the cradle of the tub, pointy and slippery, twining each other, peeling ourselves out of our clothes. Even in the steam, Truman is shivering, the tiny hairs on his arms standing up. I close my eyes against the spray.

His lips are warm, trailing down my throat, brushing my collarbone like he’s breathing me. His mouth is everywhere, caressing my throat and my face and he is wanting me and finding me and finding me again, every time his lips brush my skin.

His forehead touches mine, and that’s when I see it—the shape of his sadness.

It looms with frightening clarity, exploding to life behind my eyelids. A leafless tree, bleached by sun, split open at the base. I kiss him hard and the tree comes closer, rushing at me. My dream self reaches into the heart of it, feeling in the dark for what she knows will be there.

I search until my fingers close on something solid and I drag it out into the open, this sharp crystal thing, all edges and angles and shards. When I hold it in my hands, white light glows from it like a flash bomb, blinding. Then the light is pouring over me, seeping into my skin. It sinks into me like sunshine and I feel free.

Truman shudders against me, fingers digging into my shoulders. He makes a noise in his throat, a thick, choked noise, and I let him go.

At once, the pain tree flickers and is gone. My hands are empty. My ears are full of a faraway screaming, like static, and I’ve just done the thing I never wanted to do.

I’m lying on my back in the bathtub with a boy who’s trying to untangle his legs from mine. The shower is on and we’re both soaked.

“What was that?” he whispers. His voice is hoarse, cracking.

“It was a mistake. I’m sorry—I’m so sorry.”

“Daphne.” He sounds disoriented and a little shaky, but his smile is one I’ve never seen him wear before, wide and easy, full of gladness. He props himself on his arms, looking down at me. His eyes are clear and steady and calm. “It’s not a mistake. Whatever it was, it was . . . amazing.”

And I know for sure that there’s a heart inside my chest. I can feel it trying to leap free, to fly out into the room like a giant bird, set loose and flapping.

I saw the extent of his pain, saw all the way to the bottom, and he’s still here—smiling even. I still feel like myself, but with a better understanding of what that means. All my life, a kiss has been the territory of demons, simultaneously fascinating and frightening. Evil, unnatural, sordid.

All my life, I’ve been wrong.

The truth is, something about my mouth against his was terribly, gloriously human.

O DAYS 6 HOURS 7 MINUTES

T
ruman lay on the bed, watching the room reflected on the ceiling.

The top of Daphne’s head was tucked under his chin and her damp hair felt nice against his throat. Across the room, the television flickered peacefully, and in the mirror, the two of them looked very tired.

Kissing her had been incredible. Nothing like kissing Claire, or any of the hopeless, needy girls who wanted to make out with him at parties. It had been like sunshine, all warmth and freedom. Suddenly, the world looked much brighter.

“Did I hurt you?” she whispered, moving closer.

Truman had to force back a laugh. “I don’t know if you’ve been paying attention, but whenever I get hurt, I mostly do it to myself.”

With one hand, she began to stroke his arms. “What makes you hate your body so much?”

“Nothing. I mean, I don’t.”

She didn’t say anything, just ran her finger along the inside of his wrist. On the television, a pair of tigers were taking turns jumping between painted platforms, while a bunch of girls in sequined leotards waved bright yellow streamers behind them.

Daphne pressed closer to him, sounding half-asleep. “I’m sorry that I’m so scary.”

“You’re not scary. You’re beautiful.”

“Why do you always say such good things about me?”

“Maybe I like you,” he said, squeezing her against his chest and pressing his mouth to the top of her head. “Maybe when I’m with you, I don’t think I’m so bad either.”

“What?” Her voice was soft and drowsy. “You’re mumbling.”

“Nothing, it’s not important.” Her hair smelled like salt and water. “You’re lucky,” he said, touching her shoulder, her arm.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re so happy, just all the time.”

“No.” He could feel her lips moving against his skin as she spoke. “I was never happy before I came here.”

“What were you then?”

“Lonely. Bored, maybe. It was a strange feeling. I think if I could see it, it would look like a tiny polished castle, full of poison flowers and silver spears.”

Truman only stared up at the mirror and shook his head. His pain didn’t blossom or shine.

He took a deep breath and swallowed before he spoke. “Maybe it has a shape, I don’t know, but mine isn’t clean.”

“Why not?”

“It’s just not like that. It’s like a car accident. Anybody normal would look away. It would make them sick.”

Daphne wriggled out of his arms and pushed herself up off his chest. “No,” she said leaning over him, touching his face. “Yours isn’t an accident.”

Truman closed his eyes, concentrating on the feeling of her hand on his cheek. “That’s not what I meant.”

“But you should know what it’s like. It looks like a tree, all twisted and leafless and lightning-struck, but it’s not dead. It could still get better.”

Truman didn’t answer, just lay on his back looking up at her. Her eyes were soft and she was smiling, holding his face between her hands.

She kissed him gently, then settled back down, snuggling under his chin. “I just don’t want you thinking it will never get better.”

He clenched his jaw, holding onto her with shaking hands, pressing his mouth against her hair.

When he watched them in the mirror, their reflection was strange and distant, like he was watching from outside himself. Daphne lay with her head on his chest. Her eyes were heavy, drifting closed. His arms were around her, his hands freckled and bony against her unmarked skin. He looked younger than he had since he was sixteen. Since before his mother died. His eyes were wet and shining, but the ache in his throat was good.

He lay with tears running down his face and neck, soaking into the pillow. Watching himself cry was strange, like watching someone distant but familiar. Someone he hadn’t seen in a very long time.

Daphne lay on his chest, oblivious to the hitch in his breathing, the tears on his face. He raised one hand, touching the side of her neck, the curve of her shoulder. She was sleeping. With the remote, he switched off the TV and reached for the lamp.

In the dark, he stared up into the shadows. Almost every night for the last year, he’d woken up shaking, and even the narrow bed had seemed a mile wide. Now, sleep seemed not only possible, but right.

Against his chest, Daphne was very warm. He closed his eyes and didn’t think about drugs or Azrael or his bad, desperate year. Not loneliness, not sorrow. Nothing, nothing—nothing and everything.

And he slept. And that was fine.

The candles had all been lit, filling the church with a dim, flickering light. Truman stood barefoot on the dais, cupping his elbows in the cold, dry air. The silence was so deep that it echoed.

Azrael appeared out of the dark and leaned his elbow on Truman’s shoulder. “This is nice, isn’t it—finally being able to see each other? It’s been frustrating, trying to work with you when you couldn’t see my face.”

Truman stared straight ahead. “I don’t want to see your face. I want to go back to bed.”

“Then you really shouldn’t have let your little friend take you through that door. You might have preferred your ignorance, but delirium is a powerful eye-opener. You saw me and now you can’t unsee.”

Truman twisted away. He was cold and disoriented, but the usual rush of hopelessness was gone. Over in the corner, Obie still lay on the table, hands bound above his head. His arms were bleeding and the sight made Truman feel shaky and sick, but under that, he was newly, ferociously angry.

Azrael sighed, draping his arm over Truman’s shoulders and leaning in so that their heads rested against each other. “Aren’t you glad to see your old friend? I seem to have a vague memory of this time you got friendly with a razor and spent four days in the hospital, palling around with a lesser demon. Does that sound familiar?”

Truman shook his head, trying to pull away. Azrael’s breath was warm on his cheek and he could smell incense and old, dusty books. His throat felt closed up.

In the candlelight, he could see that the table wasn’t a table at all, just a painted board laid across a pair of sawhorses. Obie twisted and then began to struggle, pulling against the wire that fastened his hands to the top of the board.

Without thinking, Truman moved to help, but Azrael caught him by the elbow, yanking him back. “No, no. Let’s just watch. I’m curious to see where this goes.”

Obie pulled hard against the wire and after a struggle, he managed to yank one hand free. Twisting awkwardly, he used his index finger to trace something on the surface of the table.

“Freedom,” he whispered, and his voice sounded dry. Nothing happened. “Home.”

Azrael smiled and let Truman go. He crossed the dais to Obie and leaned over him. “Haven’t you figured it out yet? You’re not going anywhere.”

He yanked one of Obie’s arms down, holding it out from his body, pressing it flat against the board. The railroad spike appeared from nothing, flashing to life in Azrael’s hand. He pressed the point into the middle of Obie’s palm.

“Hand me that hammer,” he told Truman, gesturing behind him to the pulpit.

Truman looked where Azrael pointed, and there was a Craftsman hammer lying on the pulpit.

“Oh,
God
,” he whispered, backing away, shaking his head.

“Fine, I’ll get it.” Azrael shrugged and was suddenly holding the hammer. He pointed it at Truman, raising his eyebrows. “You sure you don’t want to help me? This would go faster with another set of hands.”

Truman stood by the pulpit, feeling rooted to the floor. He was breathing fast and panicky, and even the Hail Mary didn’t help.

“Suit yourself. I’ll just be a minute.” Azrael steadied Obie’s palm, then brought the hammer down. The spike didn’t punch through on the first try and he had to swing twice more before it went, splintering into the board behind Obie’s hand.

Obie gasped, curling his fingers, arching his back against the table, but he didn’t scream. Somehow, the silence made it worse. Under the blindfold, his face was pale and gaunt. His jaw stood out like he was clenching his teeth.

Satisfied, Azrael stepped back and suddenly, instead of the hammer, he was holding a pair of long-nose pliers. He sliced through the loop of wire that still held Obie’s other hand. Then the second spike was in position, driving home, slamming into the board.